Worth It (if you stick around)
by sarahslushie711
Summary: It's possible to be such a critic that you lose sight of what could possibly keep you. It's a good thing his heart is made of brave scarlet, or he would never go searching for clarity. A story in which life just sorta happens.
1. Prologue

There is something small-town-good about her, he feels. It's absurd, really, as their as city as city can get in good old England. Granted, it's not quite Liverpool, but it's certainly not small, and only sparingly good. Yet there she sits, Finchly born and bred, and still, her easy-going smile and sweet, sultry eyes convey the tale of a girl who barely knows what is outside her door, yet knows very much about the world at large.

And here is where it gets strange, Charlie admits.

Because of all things, it's this worldly, small-town-good-girl that has him thinking of love.

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸ (sometimes, who we are is more than we've been - anonymous) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

In her world, she is perfectly ordinary.

Oldest of three, a pet hamster, a regular telly, and a yard with a white picket fence. Dark hair, dark eyes, a step-mum who's a doctor and a dad who is an English professor. Her favourite colour changes weekly, her favourite book is Cinderella and her best friends are her next door neighbour and her older cousin.

Rose Celia Grant, as regular as the next.

For her eleventh birthday, she receives a new set of coloured pencils, a book on Greek Mythology, one of those techno-coloured swirling tops Eddie won at school, and her very first post, addressed to Miss Rose Celia Grant.

From then on, Rose Celia Grant is not as regular as the next.

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸ (friends are made by what we don't say) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Anne's first ride to Hogwarts is the best one of all. Between the excitement of being sent off with Bill and Charlie, the new set of school robes, and her very own wand, it's hard to imagine anything better. Her future is so bright, hopeful, exciting, that she can't help bouncing about the train.

And if her enthusiasm has her knocking into a slight, smiling boy of eleven, so be it.

"So sorry," she apologises swiftly, as that's what one does when attempting to avoid making enemies.

"S'alright," he grins, and sticks out a sticky hand in greeting. "I'm Winston."

"Winston?" Anne gives his hand a nice, firm shake. "That's a grand old British name. I'm Anne."

"Anne what?"

"Anne Prewitt."

"Winston Grant."

And from then on, Anne Prewitt and Winston Grant are fast friends.

A/N: Alright, I'm really doing this one, I promise I am. And it's going to be spectacular. So hang in there, alright? Please don't be shy, review and message me all you like.


	2. Chapter 1

,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(reality's a suggested state of being, no one ever claimed dictatorship)º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤

Chapter One

"It's only three days, you know," Rose reminds her aunt, one hand half-way towards her make-up kit and the other cradling the phone against her ear. "Three days is nothing in the grand scheme of an entire summer holiday."

"Three days and three weeks," Winston corrects quickly, and pulls out a striped blouse from her traveller's trunk. "You're not bringing this one. It makes you look fat."

Rose sends him an irritated glance before going about fitting her toiletries into the case, and then readjusting her grip on the corded phone.

"Aunt Rebecca, darling, listen. I'm in LA for three days, and then I'm with you. It's the best I can do for a Floo connection, and my seminar starts in California. Boston is no easy fix, you know."

"No, an easy fix would be tossing this blouse out with Tuesday evening's rubbish, but are we Grants known for reason? No. Merlin forbid."

"Quiet, Grant," she hisses, then returns to her conversation with a sigh. "Yeah, loads. No worries. I'll see you then, yeah? Right, lots of love, do send kisses to the rest of the lot. Bye."

Winston watches in amusement as she tries ending the call, with minimal success. It takes three more promises to ring before she arrives, two more requests to pass along the love, and finally, one sharp jab of the 'end' button.

"My gods," she shakes her head, thick waves of glossy brown falling everywhere. "I thought that would never end."

"Donno why," Winston says from between her clothes and pillows. It seems to be a comfortable spot, though how so, she will never know. Winston likes holidays, perhaps it gives him an affinity towards packing. "The red button-y thing was there all along."

"I didn't want to be rude."

"Muggles," he shakes his head sadly, and then pauses. "No, American muggles."

Rose doesn't bother telling him to be quiet this time. Whether he's right or wrong, the issue remains. Her aunt Rebecca is a special sort of American muggle, one she isn't too certain she is willing to spend a month with.

It's all in the name of pursuing her dreams, she supposes. What she wouldn't do for the upper hand in her chosen career path remains to be seen.

"Remind me why you're staying with the old bat, again," Winston demands while studiously picking through her clothes. "You are going to need more sheer. You'll be legal, for Godric's sake."

"Would you stop?" She yelps, and pulls her trunk firmly shut with one swift tug. "You are incorrigible."

"Not in the slightest. You'll be on hol's, you will want more sheer."

"You're ridiculous."

"No, you're the one hopping across the globe for a shot at a possible internship, love. Not me."

And so he has her stumped, as that is exactly what she's doing. Rose hopes it's worth the hassle, that it will get her into the Gringott's programme at the end of the year.

It's funny, how the one thing she instantaneously connected to, the only thing her mind could consciously allow as a possibility, is being a curse-breaker. Ever since Professor Binn's lecture of Castile Rock in third year, the prospect of working with intensive spell-casting, exploring history, and redefining the boundaries of magic has been the only worthy cause to dedicate her future to. After extensive research and the guiding hand of a beloved professor, there remains only one choice, and that is to commit. The Salem Research Institute is offering her just that, if she qualifies.

Staying with her aunt, however, isn't exactly what one dictates as a choice. That one is all Moira, her step mum's doing, and once she and her father had agreed to the programme in general, Rose didn't mind abiding by the few stipulations they chose to set forth.

"I can still owl my mate, you know." Wilson can clearly make out where her mind has wandered. "She won't mind you crashing with her, and she's fairly decent, so far as witches go."

"You are a chauvinistic pig."

"With a very tempting offer to bail you out of lonely-land," he grins, pointing to the phone in her hand, and she can't help the smile tugging on her lips.

Rose sets the phone on the dresser with a frown. Staying with his mate would be ideal in light of alternative plans, but reality is as it always was.

Reality murdered idealism long ago.

"I don't want to rock the boat on this one, Winston," Rose admits slowly. "I want this internship. If this is how I placate my parents, then so be it. But I'm not passing this one up."

"Suit yourself," he shrugs, and then stands. "I'm going to find Moira's hidden the biscuits. Ta, Rosie."

"Ta," she nods, and watches him apparate from the room.

It's worth it, she reminds herself, to be a curse-breaker.

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(my heart has said to run free-Joe Brooks) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Wednesday morning may very well be the busiest morning of the year. What with getting everything into the boot, and then everyone into the car on a time crunch, that is.

Winston had clearly anticipated this, and had come the night before to say his good-byes, offer her his friends guest room one more time, and then hand her a care package charmed shut until she gets the internship.

It's full house, she thinks as they crowd into the Ministry's telephone booth.

"I love this part," Eddie announces, bouncing on the balls of his feet, pressed against the edge of the phone on one side, and his mother on the other.

George winces as Rose's trunk shifts onto his foot. "I hate this part."

"It's alright," her father reasons, and puts an arm playfully around Rose. "It's a marker now, though. The start of the future."

"The future needs more room," George grumbles.

Moira's eyes follow the booth's downwards motion anxiously. "The future won't get stuck, will it?"

"Mum, it's magic," Eddie reminds gently, as if the explanation is an iron-clad rationalization.

It isn't, not really, there are always questions to be had on the science of magic. Rose knows this best from the enlightening tutelage of Professor Zacharias Mordinore, her fifth year DADA instructor.

Professor Mordinore is a curse-breaker himself, and his after-class discussions paired with his incessant book-loaning fuelled her small fascination until it became a full on obsession. His encouraging letters all throughout sixth year solidified it, converting it into a goal.

To her, Professor Mordinore is the definition of a true curse-breaker; fearless, intelligent, and fiercely charismatic. And if he had taught her anything, it's that to be successful in his field of expertise, there must always be questions.

Therefore nothing is ever explained away simply by it's being magic and that is an alluring thought on its own.

Once they pass the wand check point, and work their way into the International Floo Department, Rose has to physically qualm her excitement by pressing her nails into the tender skin of her palm.

Moira wraps her in a teary hug, and her dad checks to make sure her trunk is secure.

"And you have spending money," he tells her with a shrug. "In case you decide to leave the ruins and graveyards for a day."

"Thanks," she grins. "I'll miss you all very much."

"No you won't," George scoffs before ruffling her hair. "You'll be having too much fun."

"Not without you, I won't be," Rose corrects, and in some small way, it's absolutely true.

Nothing holds the same potential when her boys are not involved. Not even Hogwarts, which has always been the most fascinating and exciting part of her life, was never near as fun as it had been these last few years with them.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to call," this may be the fourteenth time Moira reiterates this point. "And even if you don't need anything-"

"Don't hesitate to call, yes, yes," Dad cuts in, pushing Rose towards the floo line. "We'll miss her, we all love each other, so on and so forth. Now would you kindly allow a man a private moment with his only daughter before she departs to another country?"

"Dad," Rose whispers once they manage to put some distance between themselves and the rest of her family, "it's only a month."

"You're telling me."

Rose smiles.

The thing with her father is quite simple, seeing as for all his education and eccentricity, he is quite a simple man himself. Maybe it's due to all his education and eccentricity. It's a good thing too, as there had been a time when it was just the pair of them, and any sort of complications would have only added to the load of grief and confusion plaguing the Grant household after the death of his first wife.

It's safe to assume, therefor, that for her father, nothing is ever phasing. No indeed, nothing accept losing a loved one.

It's with this thought that Rose Grant passes into the heavy, curved ministry fireplace, with a hope for the future and a prayer from the past.

A/N:Seriously, reviews are more than welcome. I don't bite. I'm looking for a beta too, hit me up if you find yourself interested and in need of messages at random, perhaps borderline ungodly hours of the day.


	3. Chapter 2

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(Imitation, if it is not forgery, is a fine thing) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

CHAPTER TWO

Bill doesn't like Salem. Not their great oak trees, their superstitious atmosphere, not even their sacred grounds.

He's seen heaven, and this doesn't even come close to the real thing. The worst bit is that once you've tasted the nectar of the gods, no one can go back to man-made wine. In other words, for Bill Weasley, there are better places to be, with more definite things to be doing.

Like raiding tombs in Egypt.

He'd been just fine doing that, loved it, in fact. Egyptian sun, tourist girls, archaeological digs to make any tough explorer swoon. Not to mention the ale. Spicy and sweet, a pint of that after a day's hard labour in the sun makes life worth living.

Now what's he got? Autumn during the summer, the local fortune teller and a history museum with an inaccurate exhibition on the witch hunts.

This is a promotion too, they would have him believe.

Promotion. Funny how those never land him in the Caribbean. No, only Salem Massachusetts for Bill Weasley.

All so he can be assigned to his first intern, while exploring the magical traces left from before the first settlement.

Although, on the bright side, being one apparition away from New York, LA and Vages is fairly cool.

"And it is a promotion," Anne reminds him during lunch as they take in the Florida sun. "That's always great."

"Donno if it is," Bill shrugs dishonestly. "I'm stuck with a shadow for the next bit of time, some bloke with a know-it-all attitude who's barely hit puberty."

"Oh, stop. They're not all like you."

"I resent that, Anne."

"You should." A beat, then, "it could be a cute little French thing, who will be madly in love with you from the go. You wouldn't mind that one."

Common knowledge dictates that Weasley's like attention, and Weasley boys particularly adore female attention. From a doting friend of the family, an attractive co-worker, a smitten underclassman or a worshiping little sister. Attention is attention, and Bill is no exception to the rule.

"I doubt she'd be French. Gringott's isn't a fan."

"Sorry. An innocent little American who will fancy the pants off you."

"If she's legal."

"Please, you love the ogling."

If she's right, Bill won't mind Salem too much.

Besides, it's a promotion, right?

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(success is not final, failure is not fatal) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

LA is less grand than Rose expects, but perhaps that is due to her over zealous imagination. She's heard talk of money tree's and flashing neon lights, all of which are suspiciously absent.

She tells one of the fourteen applicants about this little disappointment, and all the Asian witch does is stare, then snort.

"That's Vegas," and Rose takes a minute to process this.

Not because she doesn't understand – she does, it's like visiting someplace that isn't Dublin when all you had hopes for is Dublin – what throws her for a loop is the witch herself, with her heavy southern accent drawing on each word.

Right, America, the melting pot.

"Sorry," Rose explains when she realizes that she's staring. "I just – images of Jackie Chan as a cowboy are running through my head."

It's the truth, but the girl doesn't seem to be much a fan of honesty. Or maybe just not Rose's particular brand of honesty. Whichever one it is, Rose is awfully grateful that 'Haung, Amy' is called into the Director's office before she has a chance to launch into a racism tirade that would have ended with Rose pressed up against a desk and police yelling about how people like her are at fault for communism.

What racism and communism have to do with one another is a different story all together, but Rose has seen the films and is not a fan of prison life.

"Don't worry, it was funny," a wizard maybe a year older than her is leaning over across the coffee table as he grins earnestly. "Amy's just a little touchy." Then, before she gets hold of an explanation as to why Amy is a bit touchy, he's offering her his hand with a, "Tristan Mathews, at your service."

"Rose Grant, enchanted."

Not really, it's only the polite thing to say, is all, and Rose believes in niceties, if she believes in anything at all. It's the bread and butter to keeping the calm, the adhesive to any truce. Seeing as one can't exactly cast a sticking charm on a relationship, the only alternative is to acknowledge the details and pretend that yes, in her country, it's very normal indeed to have this sort of interaction.

His blue eyes crinkle slightly and shimmer even more as he smiles. "Cute."

Now that one can mean any variety of different things. It could be a compliment to her personality, her name, her clothes, even her accent and choice of words. It could be targeting all of it, for all Rose knows, which doesn't make her more comfortable at all.

"Err, right… So, are you local?" no, that isn't right. "I mean, you're American, obviously, what I mean is, are you from California."

As it so happens, yes, he is American, and no, he isn't from California, its New York for him, actually, and not the high-end bits of it. Whatever that means. He's muggle-born, his father is a detective, and he fancies himself wholly capable of working with dark magic.

Rose has a feeling he is getting into the programme, if only because he has all the necessary characteristics. Fearless, intelligent, and fiercely charismatic, Tristan Mathews has the making of an adventurous Curse Breaker.

Tristan Mathews is called in next, and he leaves her with a wink and a cold Amy Haung.

It seems that everyone gets an interview before her, not to do with any particular order, so long as she comes in last. Rose begins to wonder if she's even on the list, if maybe this is all some sort of fluke and Mordinore has yet to submit her application after all. Or maybe Americans have something against idealistic British witches, blame them for the decline in job offers world-wide.

It suddenly seems very possible that she will never see what Winston's package contains.

It's with an unnerving sense of relief that Rose is ushered into the expensively furnished back office of Chief Breaker Taylor Kertis, forgetting all her anxieties.

Salem research Institute, the SRI, is a clear supporter of this bloke as Director. At the very least, they would like it to seem as such, what with all the medals and awards covering the panelled walls. There are pictures here and there, some rising artist painting waterfalls and flashes of magic over stark canvases and framed in matching willow wood. It's quite fetching, really, and Rose finds herself very willing to work under the SRI, if this is any sort of representation.

Breaker Kertis is just as impressive, in his late thirties with the appearance of a man who spends most of his time doing the heavy-lifting himself, not posing as its face. It's the sort of look she sees on hard working aurors, the one that Gildaroy Lockhart, her last DADA professor, is missing entirely.

"Hello, sir," Rose says, seating herself in a chair which has already contained all of her competition.

He doesn't bother with replying, but he does smile appreciatively, noting how she isn't waiting for him to address her.

"Grant, right?"

"I would hope so, or I'm not supposed to be here."

Kertis glances up from her application – she knows what it is because she can spot her penmanship, in purple ink, just about anywhere – and studies her a moment.

"You do realize you're our only British applicant, and if I find reason to accept you into the SRI programme, an American programme at that, you would be taking a spot away from our local applicants? One's who even attend Salem Academy."

He means local as in American, not just from California.

"I do realize this, yes."

"What makes you think I should give it to you?"

"For one, I waited very nicely for everyone else to have a shot at it. For another, I have yet to start any riots," Amy was a close call there, but he needn't know about that, "and I've come all the way here for the mere possibility of getting to do something I've dreamed of doing for a very long while now."

Rose refrains from mentioning that if they allow her into SRI, they will be starting into the international lines of things, an entirely different quaffle than the one they have been tossing about until now. Perhaps not right away, but word spreads in little old Britain, and that's all they need for now.

It's all anyone needs for now, just a word, and if that word circulates within Hogwarts, the greatest school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, there is a very near guarantee that it will be all that is needed.

Such is the pull of Albus Dumbledore.

Kertis continues studying her, and then he starts making notes on a clean sheet of parchment. His handwriting matches his quill Rose decides suddenly, all thick, direct lines, no-nonsense, with the calm, smooth edge of a man in control.

"This here is your file, Grant," it's said in a 'thought you might like to know' way, as if it's of no real importance. "Zacharias Mordinore is right about you, smart and determined with a nice dose of spunk. On paper, it's all great though, it's in practice that I needed to know for sure. Besides, I always have one of you."

"One of me?"

"That one witch who's determined to make her world a reality, and with all the tools and blueprints to do it."

Does that make her fearless, intelligent, and fiercely charismatic is what she suddenly wants to know.

"No, I mean, you'll have me?"

Now Taylor Kertis stops and meets her gaze, and all the tough-and-honest melts away into easy-going-friendly. "Miss Grant, it would be an honour to have you participate in my programme."

A/N: We can discuss all the new characters I've taken liberties with. Just know for now that yes, they are going to be fantastical. Questions? Comments? Suggestions on what to read? The review button is there for a reason ;)


	4. Chapter 3

º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(on my list of things to do, get life back again) º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Candice Lang is learning to hate Dragons.

Or, really, just hate Charlie Weasley and Romania.

Two years, now. It's been two years spent together on this little residential reserve in some foreign country, and no one has thought to turn around and note that, hey, your partner is an arrogant rat who is all charm until you sleep with the bloke, maybe you would like a different one? Or, at the very least, some sort of honour, metal or whatever.

No. Indeed, it's all her fault, she's the one creating friction and yes, we understand how this job can be demanding on the nerves. Tea?

Seriously, what is wrong with the world, she would really like to know.

She's always been a good girl, recycling her prophets, donating to the Mungo's Children's Ward, Flooing Great Aunt Cathleen every second Tuesday of the second month to discuss whatever aches or pains she is experiencing. She couldn't possibly have done something so awful as to land her here, with this pig as a partner.

"Oh, come off it," Charlie chuckles when Candice tells him all this. "Imagine if you didn't have me around. You would be dead."

"Oh, when I'm around you, I consider offing myself," and maybe it's a tad on the dramatic side of things, but gits like Charlie Weasley demand dramatic measures.

"I'm flattered."

"Oh, you should be. Death is less miserable company than you, and that is something to be proud of."

"Well, now you're just overdoing it."

Candice stands from behind the lounge table, slamming her hands over the wood with a load 'smack.' Sure, it smarts her palms like nothing else, but again, Charlie Weasley and dramatic affect, yeah?

"My sister, you bloody git! My sister."

"What of her?"

"Wh-"she stops, chocking on the half-formed words as she checks to ensure she hasn't heard wrong, oh Merlin, he cannot be serious. He really has just said it. "You can't shag my sister after you've shagged me and then show up late to work the next day, only to proceed to have me suspended for a day because I can't handle a bleeding Chinese Fireball, is what!"

He blinks, leans back into the leather cushions, and then fishes around in his pockets for a cigarette. He seems to be completely at ease in the face of her outrage, which, he would be, wouldn't he, tough dragon taming Charlie Weasley that he is.

Charlie nods before lighting the ciggy with his wand, "I see why you'd be upset."

"Oh, do you, Weasley?"

Why she keeps adding 'oh' before everything is beyond her. It's not as if it's helping much, only serves to vent and venting, mind you, is never the thing to do with a wizard one sleeps with.

"Then again," he continues, almost as if she hasn't said a word, which, honestly, it's ridiculous. She's actually said four of them, and more or less yelled them for the entire reserve to hear. But there Charlie Weasley goes, as if no sound has been made beyond a bit of wind rustling. "It's not really much your concern what I do and with whom, is it? And you really did do a shoddy job patching Brume up, didn't you?"

Candice has never seen herself as the violent sort. Passionate, yes, a risk-taker, definitely – dragon tamer, remember – but never aggressive. In the ideal situation, it's time to step back when red starts narrowing the vision, maybe it's even appropriate to toss the wand to the left or something. This here, unfortunately, is not anideal situation, the exact opposite, truthfully, and in her defence, she doesn't often go lunging across tables to strangle ginger wizards.

Just one of those things in the unwritten moral code that she avoids doing.

Unfortunately for the pair of them, however, Charlie Weasley is a special sort of ginger wizard. The sort who requires dramatic measures, and so, without being fully conscious of having much choice in the matter, Candice flings herself right at Charlie and starts tearing into him

It's a shame, really, that the reserve's director left his post on the table she's only just overturned. She has a feeling that she would have gotten much farther along had he not needed to come back for it.

And so it is that the pair of them receives two months suspension.

On the bright side, Candice Lang will never be working with Charlie Weasley again.

,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(continuous effort is the key to unlocking potential),¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Tristan Mathews makes it into SRI's Young Initiative: Breaker Division, big surprise there. Even bigger surprise, Amy Haung doesn't.

Truly, Rose shed a few pretty tears for that one.

And, you know, the British are known for their irony and sarcasm.

"Rose Grant," Tristan more or less exclaims it, as if she's an old, dear friend and they've not seen one another in give or take years. "Pleasure seeing you here."

"If I had a sickle for every time someone said that," Rose smiles, and enters into the San Diego SRI consulate.

It's different than the one in LA, Rose notes. Where the last embassy is built with concrete lines, sharp and elegant, this one is rotund, stone, and radiates the distinct feeling of hippie magic, if such a thing exists. Each wall, curving backwards, is a different water-coloured shape of orange, lit by no particular lighting source.

There is nothing beyond the big round room, its earthy paints, and a large mirror.

"Well, this is cosy," Tristan offers the first echoing statement.

"You mean to say, this isn't regular American hospitality? Send an address leading to an empty room and see if the rookie's figure it out."

"Oh, definitely. Initiation rights."

She hums some noncommittal response, preoccupied as she is with pulling out her SRI invitation from her bag. Tristan already has his, probably having stuffed it into one of his many pockets. Men don't carry bags; they have millions of pockets to pat down instead.

In the British ministry of magic, the visitor's entrance requires simply punching in the right combination of numbers into an alleyway payphone. Americans clearly enjoy a different sort of humour, a less subtle and more Lewis Carroll sort.

Rose flashes her invitation at the mirror, praying that no Cheshire cat is lurking in her future and steps through. More like sinks through, and then is sucked through, and then pressed through, until finally, finally, she comes out on the other end.

The other end being a large, bustling atrium, with many other mirrors lining one wall, hundreds of fireplaces on the opposite side and not a single watercolour in sight. It's a disconcerting experience she isn't entirely sure she prepared for, even if she is expecting it, and Rose just about manages to move out of the way in time for Tristan's appearance.

There are more people in this one room, slipping through mirrors as if through doorways, some in swirling robes of amber, others in civilian clothes, and a few in muggle attire. Everyone seems to know just where they are going, some immersed in conversation, others in parchments or books, wands in holsters or pointed at floating files, packages, animals and – is that a man in suspended mid-animation, because it certainly seems so. Owls soar over head, swooping in through high-arched windows and letting a soft breeze infiltrate the busy environment.

Catching the look on her face, Tristan smiles, and holds out his arms in some grand fashion or another, "Welcome to the American Democracy of Magic, Rose Grant."

Alice is now very much out of her element, Rose concedes, and blinks carefully at all  
>the marble and white.<p>

"It's very… clean."

It's very many things, but she thinks perhaps it's best to stick to that one.

"Sure it is," he grins, and then pulls her by the elbow across the stone floor and towards a set of lifts she hadn't noticed until now. "SRI is the fourth floor, it's a rough stop, but, you know, the elevator is always fun. My mom works here, you know."

"Your mum is in New York," unless she isn't, which would be terribly awkward on her end and is a general no-no by ways of assumption.

His mum could be dead, his parents divorced, she could be one of those flighty women who can't quite manage motherhood and take off with some rugged guitarist to explore India. The last one is unlikely, as Tristan knows this place well enough to have the knowledge of where she is and clearly even carry on a semi-stable relationship. The first seems out of the question too, as he had said works, present tense, but there are loons in denial just about anywhere. Still, possibilities are endless, right?

"Right and we are in Washington," he answers with a smile.

Which no they aren't, they are in California last she checked, which was right before they stepped through the mirror. Unless the mirror works like some sort of transportation, which would actually explain a lot. Starting with the horrid sucking feeling and ending with how Tristan's very much not estranged mother gets here for work.

"Yeah, no, I knew that," she mutters it in the way of people who _don't _know. With the high pitch and questioning inflections. "Why would I possibly not know that?"

Tristan sniggers, and lets Rose into the lift, sorry, _elevators, _before stepping in. They aren't the only ones to get on, there are approximately four others crowed into the tight space. In theory, it's not too bad, except when the tight space bit of the situation is taken into account.

"Which floor?" someone asks briskly.

Rose studies the person's back as Tristan answers, tries deciding whether it's a witch or a wizard who's asked, and decides that she has come across an enigma she may never solve.

The man standing next to her smiles widely, nodding to a handle. "Keep a good grip. You  
>don't want to ride this one out on the ground."<p>

No, she definitely doesn't want that, Rose thinks as she steps closer to Tristan. Good thing  
>too, seeing as he steadies her nearly a dozen times by the time they reach their stop, an entirely too embarrassing number to own up to.<p>

America, Rose decides then and there, is too aggressive for her tastes. She likes things subtle and quirky. She likes not having to worry if the bloke next to you on a lift may be a serial rapist when he smiles to widely.

Then again, she also likes curse breaking and Director Kertis, as it stands.

When they arrive at the SRI office, a bleach blond witch shows off some impossibly straight, white teeth, directs them towards a lounge, and then disappears behind an oak door.

"Relax, London. That isn't where they keep the rabid dragons," Tristan reminds her, and it's awfully clear that he's having a laugh at her expense. "That's on the other side of the building."

"One can never be too cautious when presented with oak doors. Something ominous _always _lurks behind oak doors."

"And you are in a programme for aspiring curse breakers. Loosen up a little, will you? It's summer vacation, you are in a foreign country, and you are friends with the coolest wizard in the building."

"Well, I don't think Director Kertis is a friend, per say -" she starts, and then smiles when she catches his expression. "To the lounge, yeah?"

Fatal mistake number one of the day is walking into the lounge, Rose decides. Fatal mistake number two is letting her guard down around oak doors just because some chap she's met all of a day ago tells her its summertime and flashes her a gorgeous smile.

Then again, Tristan Mathews has the sort of smile on him that make witches think of motorbikes and lions, all in the most attractive of connotations.

Still, it's no excuse for the significant slip up of walking into a room with a load of aggressive potential curse breakers with perfect teeth and the label of fearless, intelligent, and fiercely charismatic without pulling out her wand first. Or, at very least, successfully avoiding being run into head long.

But no, she is just one of those girls who goes on holiday and forgets all sense of reason.

And that is why Rose ends up on the ground with a pile of muscle, robes, and a tuft of blue hair on top of her.

"Merlin, I'm sorry," he says- it's definitely a he, a relief on some note, a reason to panic on another. "Are you okay?"

"Maybe," she hasn't yet gotten around to taking inventory, what with him parked over her. "Mind getting off me?"

He scrambles to right himself, makes a bit of a general mess of it which has her wincing and wishing for her bed, then finally manages to get up right before offering her a hand. He seems genuinely concerned for the harm he may have done, but one never knows with this sort of thing. Anyone can run just about anyone into the ground and so long as they seem repentant, no one will say a thing.

She eyes him a moment before ignoring his hand and climbing to her feet, "forgive me if I chose not to let you help me. It's nothing personal."

Yes, it is completely personal, on every level of personal known to mankind, and then some.

He gets what she means, and nods, using the neglected hand to rub his neck. "Yeah, I hear. I wouldn't trust a guy after he's tackled me either."

"Is that what just happened?" Tristan, standing at the doorway and looking all sorts of confused, frowns. "You tackled her? What the hell, man."

"Well," now its blue-hair's turn to wince and Rose enjoys the irony. British, remember. "It wasn't intentional. The Asian kid started a bet, said that I couldn't bust down the door without magic and she walked in at the wrong time."

"It's Kevin," someone else says in frustration, and Rose turns to find a wizard she highly suspects is the Asian Kid. Slight, perfect black hair, no Texan accent this time, and on the shorter end of things.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"I'm sorry, what does Kevin have to do with this?" she asks whilst rubbing an elbow.

Blue-hair turns startled blue eyes on her, "do you know Kevin?"

Unbelievable.

"Yes. We were fraternal twins until I walked through the door and you literally bulldozed me over."

"Dude," another bloke cuts in from a leather sofa, "she's British. Cool."

No, correction, _now _it's unbelievable.

"Knott, shut up, will you?"

"Why? _I _didn't run her over."

"Why can people remember your name and not mine," Kevin wonders.

"You're a minority," another wizard shrugs from the chesterfield, and Knott nods as if this clears away any queries.

The door opens and another two wizards walk in, stare at them all, and grin. Seriously, why are all these Americans so happy, she wants to know. There is something in the water that makes them aggressive, idiotic and happy, with the side-effect of perfect teeth and skin.

"Tristan, Oliver," one nods towards blue-hair in indication. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Oliver?" Rose repeats. "I've got a mate, his name is Oliver too. He doesn't have your looks though, or your manners."

"That was an insult, wasn't it?" Blue-haired Oliver is cleverer than he lets on, Rose will admit.

"Yes."

,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸(the dice you keep on rolling takes away what is your life) ,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸

Bill leaves the ADM with considerable satisfaction, then Floos straight to Anne's flat. He has been contemplating getting his own place for the foreseeable future, simply because the foreseeable future always seems that marginal bit brighter when he has his own space, but now…

Anne is half-way through a feast of tea, beans and toast, peering curiously at yesterdays Evening Prophet and petting Whinny the Terror.

Whinny the Terror, named for Anne's best mate Winston Grant before either had realised the cat is female, is aptly named, what with it's playful and rather mischievous character. Bill, a firm believer in playfulness and mischief, gets along grandly with the white and grey feline.

"How'd it go?" she asks calmly, not bothering to get up.

"One month is all, and I'm gone by mid-July."

There is no hiding it – Bill Weasley feels triumphant. Well, he should, seeing as he's just managed to cut down his sentence to four weeks, and has the glorious prospect of Egypt, promotion and all, in his future.

Anne snorts. "It's not gonna be the same after this one."

Bill raises a brow at his cousin as he starts fixing himself a plate. "Sure it won't. It'll be loads better. Appreciate it once it's gone and all that rod, yeah?"

"Right, except it works both ways, doesn't it?"

"Is this your way of suggesting I'm going to fall in love with anti-culture and feminist birds? If so, I'm going to disagree and tell you that I will definitely not feel _that_ passionately about Salem."

"Egypt smells."

"You smell."

"Like a million galleons, which is consequentially how much I will have made in the land of the free and home of the brave within the next little while of my life."

Bill resists seeming impressed. It's tough, but this is Anne. "Well, not all of us have money to warm our beds and tame our dreams at night, do we."

Anne smiles at that, and points to the empty kettle before Bill manages to get a chance to pull out a chair. "Care to refill?"

With exaggerated frustration, Bill pulls his wand from it's holster and flicks it. "So very complicated."

She laughs, then sets the newspaper to her left. "Speaking of, are you planning on living off of me and mine for the coming month?"

Bill watches as the tea kettle settles onto the table, and nods. "Well, you _did_ do the same to me for thirteen years, didn't you? All that attention you took from me and stealing my best jumpers."

"Oh please, I took _Percy's_ attention and _Charlie's _jumpers. The only thing I took from you is your sanity and your mates. And trust me, they were both glad to go."

"That's what mum and dad want you to believe, anyhow."

Anne nods condescendingly at this, and passes him the Prophet. "I've just spoken to them, actually. Nothing too exiting. Percy's gripping for Head Boy, Ron's successfully passed his second year exams and Ginny isn't having too many nightmares now. Oh, and Charlie seems to have taken a holiday, dad will have me believe."

Bill chokes on his first bite of toast. Charlie, on holiday? Not bloody likely. His brother has a passion for Dragon-taming so strong, it seems to have replaced every other area of value in his life. The last thing he would ever do isleave it behind for a week or two. To Charlie, dragons breathing fire at you and trying to convert you into tomorrows breakfast is a holiday. This isn't a personal choice by a long shot and both Anne and Bill know it.

"Yeah, and he's asking me for sanctuary so he doesn't have to spend it at home."

Bill whistles. "He's done himself a number, hasn't he?"

"Recon he slept with the new director and then her sister?"

"Nah, Charlie'd have more sense than that." Bill would hope, anyway. "So, you making this a Weasley summer then?"

Anne tilts her head right then left, drawing a sip from the chipped mug in a contemplative fashion. "I just might. Depends on how Charlie feels about cooking breakfast."

Charlie hates making breakfast, something Anne is fully aware of, seeing as they had more than a few tussles over that one over the years. But then again, Anne likes to have her daily dose of irony, and Bill does too.

"Sounds good to me."

"It would, it helps curb your pain over mooching."

"And how very great it is, isn't it?"

"Nah," Anne grins easily, setting aside her plate and standing. "It's just what family is for, right?"

A/N: Please, don't be shy. Let me know what your thinking as it's in everyone's best interests here. Until next time!


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